I still remember everything about the first friend I outgrew. My new friends hated her, and she hated them. I was nine years old at the time, too young to realize that everything I left unsaid during that first friend breakup would follow me into my teenage years. When I lost my second close friend, I saw my first one in her eyes. The same betrayed look when we realized we were drifting apart, the same hurt expression when I laughed with my new friends in front of her. The real kicker? They had similar names. I’d nostalgically think of one, and the other would immediately pop into my head. The all-encompassing grief, the guilt crushing my bones—I was sure it was my fault, and that karmic justice would catch up to me soon.
But it takes two for a friendship to break. Think of it like a flimsy material, paper or a napkin—you need two hands to tear it in half. I feel nothing for either of them now, but at one point, they knew me better than anyone else. I hope they’re doing well, but I don’t care enough to ask.
What Do You Say To A Ghost?
The third friend I lost hit me the hardest. It messed me up beyond belief. I kept thinking about her for months afterwards, writing letter after letter dedicated to her, with no intention of ever sending them. No one, up until then, had hurt me the way she did. And if drifting apart was like ripping a piece of paper in half, she guided my hand as we did it. It felt like I had no other choice but to let go, and yet I cried for days afterwards.
We recently reconnected, and I had no idea what to say to her. Our conversations felt stilted and awkward. I didn’t know what might offend her or set her off. I didn’t know her anymore—but there was a time I did. I wish we could go back to that, but we can’t. So I ignored her texts when I didn’t know how to respond and reread the old ones, trying to remember what we used to be. It’s like she died, but her ghost still lingers. And I have no idea what to say to her. I’m sorry you died. I’m sorry we died. Do you still like eating mangoes? Are you doing okay? I love you, but we will never be the same again.
A month after the incident, I made a Spotify playlist for her. The first five songs were by Phoebe Bridgers, Ethel Cain, Mitski, Rina Sawayama, and The Cranberries, which should tell you everything about my mental state.
“You’re my best friend
– Mistki, from ‘The Frost’
Now I’ve no one to tell
How I lost my best friend”
The way we reconnected was actually through an email. That used to be our thing—emailing each other whenever we were mad about something. We had exchanged two or three harsh, cruel emails after our friendship ended, and that was our last interaction before I decided to send one final email for closure, almost a year later, as a final goodbye.
Except, instead of goodbye, it brought us back together.
The only reason I bring this up now is to discuss how we ended our friendship. I sent her a long message, telling her I couldn’t be friends anymore because it was ruining my life. She replied with an entire email with the subject line: ‘Read this, or don’t.’ I sent one back with the first line being: ‘Of course I would read it. Is that even a question?’
The Price of Nostalgia
I think that’s my problem. Is that even a question? Would I still care for my friends long after we’ve left each other behind? The answer has always been yes. I’ve never moved on from anything in my life. I still stalk the first friend I lost obsessively. The second friend I lost once gave me an Eiffel Tower keychain, and I still use it for my house keys. And I still try so hard not to bring up all the ways the third friend—the one I recently reconnected with—hurt me, because I’ve never moved on. But she has.
Anyway, I’ve outgrown a few more friends since then. Whenever I see them in person, I’m always racking my brain, trying to remember what we used to talk about and what we used to say. I try not to blurt out things I remember them mentioning in passing—I don’t want them to think I’m holding onto them. But I am.
There’s a graveyard in my heart, full of cadavers. Their gravestones are etched with every little detail I remember about them, carved by my own hands. I’ve spent countless days and nights in that burial ground. I miss them more than I remember them.
Did you call me from a séance?
Frank Ocean, from ‘Nights’
You are from my past life
Hope you’re doin’ well
Contingency Planning for Every Friendship
Losing these friends didn’t just hurt—it rewired the way I approached every friendship after. I started overcompensating, bending over backwards to keep people close, too anxious to set boundaries, and too afraid of saying the wrong things. I didn’t just fear abandonment, I anticipated it. I saw it lurking in the distance, so I ran before it could reach me. I sensed arguments brewing long before they began, so I scurried under the blankets until the storm passed. I try harder now to hold onto my friendships, but the moment I feel one slipping, I look away. If I don’t acknowledge the cracks, maybe they won’t break.
But… friendships don’t come with epilogues. Every time I meet someone new, they won’t have ‘DANGER!!!’ written on their forehead in bold, red lettering. And some days, I think closure is just a myth we tell ourselves to get a good night’s sleep. People leave and we stay, or sometimes it’s the other way around. Either way, the graveyard is never at rest. Their memories won’t fade, just settle into ash and dust, and I’ll probably keep their urns on my nightstand forever.
Maybe one day, their names won’t make me flinch. Maybe one day, I’ll stop checking their profiles, lurking on their families’ Facebook accounts, and being obsessive and needy. I’ll forget their favourite songs, the fashion brands they loved, and the video games they swore by. I’ll stop feeling like I owe something to their ghosts.
But today is not that day. And if I’m being honest, I don’t think it ever will be.
“I’m staying in tonight
Julien Baker, from ‘Appointments’
I won’t stop you from leaving […]
Maybe it’s all gonna turn out alright
And I know that it’s not,
but I have to believe that it is”
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